The man who used to carry you on his shoulders at street fairs.
The man who had watched you walk toward an altar in pain because he “didn’t know how to stop it.”
Damian’s expression turned colder.
“You knew enough to call me.”
Your father’s mouth trembled.
“Leonardo threatened the company. The house. Caroline’s medical bills. He said if we canceled, he would destroy everything.”
You closed your eyes.
There it was.
The price of your body.
Your father’s business.
Your parents’ comfort.
Your family’s name.
You had become the payment.
Damian shut the door.
“To Northwestern Memorial,” he told the driver.
Your father remained outside on the sidewalk as the SUV pulled away.
Your mother stayed beside you, weeping into your hand.
You wanted to comfort her.
That old instinct rose automatically.
But then you remembered every time she had helped cover the bruises.
Every time she told you to be patient.
